She loved him too much to see him fall. Still, she couldn’t actually say the words. “I think we’re all set for the carnival next weekend.”
Sasha could feel his incredulity without looking at his face. “That’s what you came here to say?”
“What else would I be here to say?” Willful ignorance was one of the only tools in the Finerghty toolbox that she hadn’t used with him. She’d always had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t let her get away with it. But she risked looking at him now, risked him seeing right through her. “There’s nothing else I can say.”
She choked on the words, desperately hoping that he would really understand. He stared at her for a long moment, and then looked down at his hands. She didn’t risk that. If she let herself linger on the memories of him touching her, the ones she’d have to hoard forever, she wouldn’t be able to leave. And she had to leave.
He let her off the hook with one word. “Okay.”
Her heart was broken as she stood on shaky legs and walked out of the church. She’d never be able to come back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PATRICK USUALLY DIDN’T DRINK much while he was working behind the bar at Dooley’s. His dad didn’t have a rule about it, but it was more of an understanding. Tonight, he was pretty sure that his dad would comprehend his pain and why he wasn’t just having a beer while keeping watch over the nearly empty bar.
He also didn’t usually wear his collar while working. He only had to wear the collar when he was in public in his official capacity. Tonight, he was afraid that he would forget why he couldn’t go after Sasha if he wore street clothes. There would be nothing keeping him from closing up and going to her, leaving it all behind.
When he’d become a priest, he’d thought he’d never get dumped or rejected in love again. He’d thought it was impossible. But nothing was going to shield him from the intensity of this heartbreak—not his vows to the Church or the ones he’d made to himself a decade ago.
He knew now that he couldn’t keep his humanity in a box anymore, but he didn’t know where to put it without Sasha. He wasn’t narcissistic enough to have missed the fact that Sasha had seemed wrecked when she told him that they were over before they’d even had a legitimate beginning. But he was at a loss as to what had wrecked her. She had a spine of steel under her delicate exterior, and it had to be something huge if she was that shaken.
She’d cut off all her hair.
Despite his limited experience with women, he knew that was a big deal. It was symbolic and ritualistic. He loved her hair and cutting it off was a message. She was cutting him out.
He had no right to know why and no way to find out why, so he drank his scotch and rubbed the same worn spot on the bar clean while trying to pay attention to the two patrons deep in their cups in the back.
He couldn’t have been more surprised when Sister Cortona walked in. She’d never visited Dooley’s. He would’ve sworn that she didn’t know where it was before she sat down at his father’s bar and looked at him expectantly.
“You’re not even going to offer a nun a beer?” She shook her head—which for once was not covered in a habit. “Kids these days.”
Curiosity, if nothing else, spurred him to action. “What’ll it be?”
“Dark lager. Not cheap shit.”
Patrick had to laugh. She had great taste for a woman who’d taken a vow of poverty. He poured her a beer and took it back to her. And then he waited for her to tell him why she was there.
Luckily, she had more mercy on him than Sasha or his boss right now. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I work here three nights a week.” Patrick pretended to be obtuse, knowing it would rile her up. It was one of the only pleasures left to him, and he didn’t intend to give it up. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t have time for you and your stupid, wasted, pretty face to be obtuse.” Sister Cortona took a long sip of her beer and relished it before working her ire back up and saying, “Why did you let that girl walk out on you?”
“Were you spying on us?” He’d tried to be careful after Sister Cortona had dressed him down for his crush on Sasha before, but his colleague didn’t miss anything.
“Of course I was.” She scoffed at him, and Patrick bristled. “You think I have anything better to do?”
“Well, you should be happy now.” Patrick looked away, not able to sustain eye contact with her withering gaze. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You mean nothing’s going to happen again?” Shit, she knew everything. “Why not?”
Patrick froze. He’d been calculating how he would explain himself if Sister Cortona brought his indiscretion up with the bishop. He was filled with shame at having to confess and repent— he’d never thought he’d be the guy who’d have strayed from his vows. In the scheme of things, what he’d done with Sasha was serious. Even though it was over, he felt as though his moral authority was completely gone. But without his vocation and without her, who was he? It was a question he hadn’t wanted to answer a decade ago. And he didn’t want to answer it now.
But the sister might not give him a choice. And maybe he should surrender to her superior wisdom. She was a hard-ass, but she’d never steered him wrong before. He wasn’t getting any guidance from God, and he hadn’t gotten up the courage to confess to his actual confessor, so maybe he should let Sister Cortona take on the visage of fate.
“Why not?” A few clarifying comments were probably in order first, though. “I’m a priest. We’re not exactly allowed to run after women we’re illicitly snogging and make grand gestures.”
“I’m aware of that. Why didn’t you go after her?” She was so matter-of-fact about something so confusing that Patrick thought he might be drunker than he actually was.
“I need you to explain to me what you mean like I’m one of the preschoolers.”
Somehow she managed to look down on him, even though he was standing and she was sitting. “That’s what I normally do.” She took another sip of beer. “I swear to God, they let infants become priests. That’s how fucking desperate they are.”
“Want another beer?”
Sister Cortona nodded, and Patrick pulled her another pint. When he returned, she said, “I told you months ago that you should pursue her.”
He nearly dropped the glass of beer on the bar in front of her. “You warned me to stay away from her.”
“No, I didn’t.” She looked incredulous, and Patrick’s frustration amped up about six points. It was almost refreshing after he’d walked around feeling dejected for three days.